


Not a Second to Spare

by orphan_account



Series: Just Another Miracle [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sherlock is a bit of an idiot, Shmoop, brief mentions of past abusive relationship, no real plot, vulnerable!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 10:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1118840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock learns to be loved.</p><p>This is just short, shameless shmoopy fluff and wobblylock. More Sherlock angsting. (I do plan to write something from John's POV eventually.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Second to Spare

Soft whuffs of air from John’s sleeping form mingled with the comforting sound of London’s traffic as Sherlock lay on his side, drinking in the image of John nestled next to him. The doctor’s face was smooth and peaceful—no nightmares held him in their grip tonight—and his hand was curled loosely on top of his chest, around Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock could feel the steady beat of his heart, and had to stifle the protective impulse to gather John into his arms to shield him from whatever imaginary dangers the night held.

It had been a week since they had both left the hospital, bruised and aching but whole in a way neither had been in a long time. Sherlock still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that John wanted him as more than flatmate and friend, at least for now. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe that it would last. Eventually, John would want to settle down with someone worthy of his affections, and Sherlock would need to be prepared to let him go.

It was for this reason that Sherlock was currently fighting the sleep dragging at his eyelids for the seventh night in a row. He had John here, now, in his bed, and there was no way he was going to sleep through what precious time he had to appreciate it. He never tired of looking at John, or of feeling the warmth of his skin. Every moment, every detail was filed away in his mind palace for the day when John found someone else. Someone better.

Sherlock shivered at the memory of their first night back, when John had taken him to bed for the first time. He’d been nervous about it—it had been a long time since his last sexual experience, and that one hadn’t been terribly pleasant—but he’d melted at John’s touch. He was so gentle. Every stroke of John’s hand, every thrust spoke of tenderness beyond Sherlock’s comprehension, and he’d come gasping against John’s chest as John held him through it. Sherlock suspected, from the way John had looked at him and cradled him afterwards, that John had guessed something about his sexual history. He could be remarkably perceptive at all the wrong moments.

It was light outside now, morning sunlight drifting in through the curtains. John would be awake soon. Sherlock loved to watch as he stirred and became conscious of his surroundings. It was a beautiful transition, and John always looked so deliciously sleep-rumpled in the morning.

Sherlock’s own eyes were burning slightly from lack of sleep (more so than yesterday; he would need to be aware of fatigue as a factor in his thought processes), but he pushed that out of his mind. John was waking.

“Hello,” John said roughly, blinking up at Sherlock and smiling sleepily.

Sherlock smiled back down at him, a rush of joy filling his chest as John lifted a hand to move one of his curls out of the way. “Hello,” he replied. “Sleep well?”

 “Very,” John said, his smile growing. “You?”

“Mm,” Sherlock rumbled, lowering his head to nuzzle at John’s neck. “You tired me out.”

John chuckled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “At least let me brush my teeth before you begin driving me mad with your charms, you wanker.”

Sherlock grumbled, but lifted himself away so that John could slide out from underneath the covers. He let his eyes travel appreciatively over John’s naked body, ogling him obviously until John threw a pillow at his head and disappeared into the bathroom.

Sherlock stretched lazily and sat up, plucking his dressing gown from the floor and draping it around himself. Sleep tugged at his muscles, but Sherlock shook it off, ignoring the way his fingers fumbled with the tie of his gown. Once John went back to work, he’d start taking naps, but for now there were more important things to occupy his time.

John wandered back into the bedroom, clean-shaven and with a towel wrapped around his waist. Sherlock gave the towel an accusatory look, earning a laugh from John, before striding past him to brush his own teeth. The domesticity of the relationship felt undeniably natural, as if they’d merely knocked down the few remaining barriers between them. Little had changed, other than the introduction of sex and “cuddling” to their dynamic. And for all Sherlock struggled to say the word, he did love the cuddling.

It wasn’t perfect. Sherlock had never done this before, and he couldn’t slide smoothly into an embrace the way John could. It never failed to take Sherlock’s breath away when John pulled him closer or wrapped his arms around him, and he was never quite sure what the rules were in this new game of give and take. It left him fumbling, unsure, and John frequently looked up from whatever he was doing to see Sherlock standing there, fidgeting and undoubtedly looking ridiculous. But John didn’t ridicule him for it. He would simply smile and beckon, or call Sherlock an idiot and tell him to get over here. Sherlock would settle, relieved, against John’s body, and John would kiss his forehead and tell him he didn’t need to ask permission to cuddle. Sherlock would sigh against John’s skin and wish it could last forever.

Sherlock knew his lack of knowledge where social cues were concerned was a weakness. It was something he generally worked around by being perfectly blunt and requesting that others do likewise. But with John this wasn’t an option, because John honestly seemed to believe that their relationship could last. It was just another testament to John’s remarkable ability to fool himself—the man had spent decades pretending he was completely straight, after all. Sherlock couldn’t just ask John to tell him when he began to tire of their relationship, because John would simply deny that it would happen, which would make it that much more painful when it inevitably did. So Sherlock waited, not allowing himself to become accustomed to John’s affections. He paused before sitting too close or getting into bed, just in case their time had run out. The rejection would be easier to handle if he could pretend he’d seen it coming.

“You okay?” John asked from the doorway. Sherlock blinked, realizing he’d been staring down at the sink, lost in thought. He caught John’s eye in the mirror and smiled.

“Perfectly,” he said, rinsing off the razor and tucking it back in its place.

John stepped over the bundle of pajamas on the floor and looked up at Sherlock, frowning slightly. “You sure? You look a bit pale, even for you.”

Sherlock huffed. “I’m always pale, John. Stop worrying.”

“Where would you be if I stopped worrying?” John asked fondly, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“In a gutter somewhere, no doubt,” Sherlock muttered. John wrapped his arms around him and Sherlock sighed into his touch, reaching for a bottle of hair product. He squirted some into his palms and ruffled it through his hair, John reaching up to help from behind.

“Twist and diffuse,” John said, laughing when Sherlock scowled at him in the mirror. Together they coaxed Sherlock’s curls into order. “Beautiful,” John murmured when they’d finished, causing Sherlock’s cheeks to flush with color. His fingers fumbled with the cap of the hair product, and it clattered into the sink.

John chuckled, picking it up for him. “I’m surprised you aren’t used to hearing that. You will be, though,” he said, holding Sherlock a bit tighter. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Sherlock swallowed, knowing the memory of those words would wreak havoc on his heart in the future. He’d never been so happy, but even now his chest ached at the thought. Sentiment. It was so terribly confusing.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock started in John’s arms. “Yes, yes, sorry. Thank you. Sorry. I. What time is it? Lestrade wants us, there’s a body, thirty-something male surrounded by cupcakes….” He settled into the familiar motions of the case, moving with his usual frenetic energy but feeling oddly distant from the whole thing. In ten minutes they were clattering down the stairs and hailing a cab, Sherlock drumming his fingers against the armrest and steadfastly ignoring the way John was studying him.

The case didn’t prove to be terribly complicated, but Sherlock could feel the fatigue slowing him down. The effect wasn’t enough that anyone else would notice it, thankfully, and Sherlock had the motive and opportunity pieced together in a matter of minutes. When he looked up, John was watching him with such a proud expression on his face that Sherlock found himself momentarily speechless.

“Yes, Sherlock?” Lestrade said impatiently, looking between the two of them with raised eyebrows.

“The frosting,” Sherlock finished, tearing his eyes away from John, whose smile had turned into a grin. “Find the frosting, find the murderer.”

“Right,” Lestrade said slowly, looking between them again. “Sherlock, are you all right? You seem a bit, I dunno, distracted.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, turning his coat collar up. “Come on, John.”

John nodded goodbye to a thoughtful-looking Lestrade and trotted to catch up with Sherlock, who was striding away from the body. He used the gate instead of simply hopping over the shallow wall, unable to muster the energy and conscious of the fact that his balance would be affected by the lack of sleep.

 John turned to him once they were in the cab, a pensive look on his face.

“We never discussed whether to tell people or not. Do you…. Do you want to? Or should we just leave it, and let them find out whenever?”

Sherlock bit his lip, uncertain. Other people would surely see what John could not. They would express incredulity, confusion, disgust. John had people in his life whose opinions he valued, and if he listened to them, he might be convinced. Sherlock could lose him even more quickly.

He cleared his throat. “Better not. Not really worth all the questions and….everything.” He flashed a smile, knowing immediately how anxious it must have looked and regretting the action. He was normally so _good_ at this, at putting up a mask, but it never seemed to work with John.

“Okay,” John said. “That’s fine.” He reached a hand over and took Sherlock’s, giving it a squeeze. Sherlock looked at it, and at John, sitting across from him in his oatmeal jumper, and felt his chest constrict. How anyone could ever really believe John Watson was ordinary, Sherlock had no idea.

Back at the flat, John put the kettle on and Sherlock collapsed onto the couch, his hands steepled under his chin. He wasn’t exactly thinking so much as daydreaming, about John and cuddling and kissing and laughing and solving cases, and how perfect it all was, or how perfect it would be if only Sherlock were that sort of person. The sort of person who was compatible with the “till death do us part” kind of love.

John set a cup of tea down beside Sherlock and swatted at his feet until Sherlock sat up, allowing John to sink down beside him. The telly flickered to life, and Sherlock sat a careful two feet away until John turned and reached an arm out, pulling Sherlock to him. John’s jumper was soft and it smelled like him, and Sherlock buried his face in it, wriggling closer and sighing contentedly. They didn’t speak for the next hour, words unnecessary when John was close enough to press kisses to Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock could nuzzle at his neck in response.

It was later, when John was already in bed reading and Sherlock was just heading to join him, that Sherlock momentarily forgot to keep himself awake. He was preoccupied with vague fantasies about spending the next day curled up with John, discussing past cases or snogging or possibly being fucked to within an inch of his life. His eyelids fluttered closed for merely a second, but that was enough to send him careening straight into the side of the bedroom door, smacking his head against the edge.

Sherlock winced, his eyes flying open as he stumbled backwards, the side of his head throbbing.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John said, appearing at his side and tugging him through the doorway to sit on the bed. He appeared to be somewhere between laughter and true concern. “What happened? Did you try to walk while stuck in your mind palace or something?”

Sherlock rubbed the side of his head, kicking himself for succumbing to something as pedestrian as fatigue. “Don’t know. Distracted.”

John narrowed his eyes, his gaze flicking up to where Sherlock was gently probing his head. “Well, I think you’ll live. But honestly, it looked like you just fell asleep where you were standing.” He looked back at Sherlock’s face, clearly assessing. “Sherlock,” he asked slowly. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Of course, don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock grumbled, tensing. John would be angry if he found out Sherlock had been lying about this for a week.

“I’m not, I’m diagnosing. And it looks a hell of a lot like you are suffering from sleep deprivation. Which is odd, considering that you’ve been saying you slept well.” John raised his eyebrows, giving Sherlock a stern look. There was a moment of silence as Sherlock fidgeted, avoiding John’s gaze.

“Sleep is a waste of time,” he muttered, finally.

“It’s really not. You need it, Sherlock. How much have you actually slept since we got back?”

“Um,” Sherlock said, his mind scrambling to find the right answer. Honesty or a comforting lie? John had an uncanny ability to tell when he was lying. He would be angry. Would he be angrier if Sherlock was honest? Sherlock didn’t know, and he felt the familiar fear blooming in his chest. Would this be the start of John’s departure from their relationship?

Evidently he took too long to answer. “Sherlock. Have you slept at _all_?” 

“Um,” Sherlock said again. “Not…. No. No.” He looked down, his heart beating uncomfortably fast.

“For god’s sake. Even you are not capable of living without sleep.” John paused, and Sherlock could feel his eyes on him. He picked at the cuffs of his shirt. “Is it….me?” John asked, something uncertain in his voice.

Sherlock looked up, frowning. John took a breath, licked his lips, and looked Sherlock in the eyes. “Look, if you don’t want to sleep in the same bed…. We don’t have to. We don’t have to do anything, Sherlock. Just tell me…. Tell me why you’ve not been sleeping.”

Sherlock’s heart hammered frantically against his ribcage. John was suggesting they end their relationship. Was that what was happening? _Please not yet. Not so soon. I’ve only had a week._ “No!” He said, his voice hoarse. _Wait. Backtrack._ “Not yet, John, please. I’ll do—I’ll try harder. But.” He stopped, his mind catching up with what he was saying. _No, no._ This wouldn’t help. His thoughts were moving too slowly—damn his body’s need for sleep. John wouldn’t want him to be frantic. It was unattractive. He cleared his throat. “What I mean to say, John, is that I would very much like to continue this relationship for as long as possible, and I will do my best to make it enjoyable for you.” Sherlock’s voice trembled slightly on the last word, but he swallowed and met John’s gaze, forcing himself to look unruffled.

John was giving him an odd look. Sherlock couldn’t decipher it. He felt a burning in his throat and looked away, wishing John would just _answer_ so that he could get out from under the doctor’s gaze.

“Sherlock, no,” John said, his voice gentle. “I don’t want to end this either. I wasn’t suggesting that. But I want you to be happy, and also not walking into walls because you’re so exhausted. I just want to know _why_ , so I can help.” He paused. “And then I think we need to talk about this ‘not yet’ business.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, willing his body into calm, and looked back up at John’s face. There was a concerned crease between his eyebrows, but there was light in his eyes, the kind of light that was always there when they kissed or when Sherlock made tea. The light that had overcome Sherlock’s defenses and gotten them into this mess in the first place. Sherlock sighed, giving in to it once again.

“Sleep _is_ a waste of time, John. Time I can’t waste, not now, not…. I have you now, don’t you see? And if I sleep, I’ll miss it, I’ll miss the time I have with you, and then I’ll regret it. Later, when you’re…. Well. Later.” Sherlock looked at John, imploring him to understand.

“Later when I’m….what? Sherlock, as far as I’m concerned, we have all the time in the world. If you’re amenable, we have forever.”

“No we don’t!” Sherlock nearly shouted, standing and gripping his hair. “We don’t, John, because you’re going to find someone else. You’re going to find someone better, someone pretty and ordinary, someone who’s not a _freak._ ” He spat the last word, facing away from John and breathing heavily. “And then you’re going to leave me, and I’m prepared for that, John, I am, but I can’t sit by and let the time I do have with you go to waste.” Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against the wall, every breath shaking through him. He couldn’t think. Already he was regretting the words. He’d put himself completely at John’s mercy with his outburst, and though John’s mercy was admirable, Sherlock had no idea what was going to happen now. Of course he’d managed to screw everything up. He wasn’t _built_ for this.

Sherlock felt a tentative touch to his shoulder and froze, his breathing quieting abruptly.

“Sherlock, turn around. I need you understand me when I say this. Okay?”  Sherlock breathed out one more time and turned, slowly, until he was facing John. “Thank you,” John said, looking at him. His expression was troubled and fond and indescribably sad, and so many other things that Sherlock had the urge to squint as though he were looking at the sun.

“Just listen to me for a moment. I love you. I really, really love you. I’ve never experienced this before, all right? And I would be honored to spend the rest of my life with you. I’m never going to find anyone I’d rather share it with. I don’t want someone ordinary. You don’t need to worry about pretty, because you’re honestly the most heartstoppingly beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Don’t look away, I’m serious. Sherlock, I want—I _need_ you in my life no matter what, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that possible, but to be honest I’d be devastated to lose what we have now. So will you trust that I love you, and that I’m going to keep loving you? Please? I promise I’m never going to stop.” There was a hint of color in John’s cheeks, but his face was set and his eyes held Sherlock’s gaze unblinkingly. He’d drifted closer, and was gripping Sherlock’s hands in his.

Sherlock closed his eyes. It was so tempting. John was being so crushingly genuine. But. “You can’t know what will happen, John.”

“No,” John said, “but I do know that this kind of love can’t be—can’t be extinguished. No matter what unforeseeable things happen.”

Sherlock opened his eyes again, seeing John’s expression and all of said love etched into the lines of his face. It took his breath away, every time. “You—you think so?” He asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“God, yes, of course,” John said, pulling Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock’s arms came around to clutch at him, fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt. His breath hitched violently, and John’s arms tightened around him. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. Christ, I can’t believe I let you think like this for a week.” Sherlock pressed closer as his throat threatened to close up completely, and John held him, his strong arms lending support as Sherlock got himself under control.

“John,” Sherlock murmured against John’s earlobe, once he’d quieted.

“Yeah?”

“Really? You’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m sorry you ever doubted it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock breathed out shakily and pulled away so that he could see John’s face, his mind spinning as he thought about what this meant. John was his. John, who knew about these things, said that this was forever, and Sherlock was trusting him. It was a risk. But if John was right….

“So I won’t… I’m not going to lose you?” Sherlock asked, his voice rough.

“No. No, Sherlock, never.”

“I’m not going to end up….alone?”

John reached a hand up to cup Sherlock’s face, looking stricken. “No. I’m going to stay with you for as long as you’ll let me.”

Sherlock stared down at John, images racing through head. The two of them dashing around London, lounging on the sofa, eating at Angelo’s. The adrenaline of the case, the bliss of a lazy Sunday morning in bed. John holding his hand in the cab. John defending him. John laughing with him. John snogging him. And he could have it for the rest of his life.

“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly.

John took his hand and led him to the bed, pushing him gently down against the pillows and sitting beside him. “You’re not a freak,” he said, disgust coloring his enunciation of the last word.

Sherlock frowned down at his hands. “You’re angry. I’m sorry, I—”

“Not at _you_ , Sherlock. Jesus, I. I could never be angry at you for this. I’m angry with myself for not making it obvious I was in this for the long term. I’m angry at every—every _fucking_ bastard who ever called you a freak and made you believe you weren’t—what, deserving of being loved?”

“Capable.” Sherlock said quietly, memories stirring and familiar words floating to the surface. “Not capable.”

John’s hand stroked Sherlock’s face, turning it towards him. He looked Sherlock in the eyes, his expression earnest. “I love you. No one is incapable of being loved. Least of all you.”

“John,” Sherlock started, wanting somehow to convey how intensely grateful he was that John had run into Mike that day, and that he had been intrigued and come on that first case and so many after it, that John had forgiven him, that John had, finally, inexplicably, _chosen_ him. But he had no words, and after a pause he shook his head minutely and simply said, “I love you,” back.

John smiled and kissed him, and for a moment they lay there together, relishing the closeness. Then John frowned, and turned to gaze up at the ceiling. Sherlock continued to gaze at John.

“So,” John said, slowly. “For the past week, instead of sleeping you’ve been….”

Sherlock coughed awkwardly. “Watching you sleep.”

“It can’t have been all that interesting,” John said, turning back to him.

Sherlock closed his eyes, recalling the images he’d carefully tucked away. “You’re very soft when you’re sleeping. Warm. That little crease between your eyebrows disappears. You smile sometimes. You move closer. Sometimes you hold onto me for the entire night.” Sherlock paused, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “When you’re relaxed, you wake up slowly. Your temperature rises slightly and you start moving a bit more. You become aware of what’s around you, but you chase sleep, keeping your eyes closed even as your mind wakes. Then you’ll blink open your eyes, and your hair will be sticking up, and the pillow has sometimes creased the skin of your face, and you see me and you smile and it’s….” Sherlock trailed off, opening his eyes again to see John watching him.

“Most people might find that mildly creepy,” John said, smiling and shaking his head. Sherlock felt his cheeks heat, and glanced down, but John leaned forward and kissed him. “You’re a romantic at heart, Sherlock Holmes. I should have guessed.”

“This is a special case,” Sherlock grumbled.

John sighed quietly, his hand resting on Sherlock’s collarbone. “Sherlock…. Don’t ever doubt that I want this with you. I’m sorry that anyone ever made you believe it was something you couldn’t have. It’s yours, it’s all yours.”

Sherlock caught his breath, the words still making his heart flutter. John’s frown deepened, and he kissed Sherlock again. “Another thing that you’ll need to get used to. That you should _already_ be used to.”

Sherlock rolled over and exhaled against the skin of John’s neck. John’s arm curled around him, and for the first time since they’d returned from the hospital, there was no ticking clock echoing loudly in Sherlock’s mind. They had time. John loved him, _really_ loved him, and they had time.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured.

“Thank _you_ ,” John replied, and kissed his head. “Now go to sleep. I’ve got you.” It took Sherlock less than a second to comply.  

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated, as always. Thanks for reading!


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